One for the Team
by chrissie0707
Summary: Tag to 7.14 PPMM. It's been a long damn time since he's heard Dean laugh like this. He'd forgotten what it was like, the LIFE in the sound. Brief strong language.


_Just a small tag to Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie that came about when I was playing around today. Thanks for the idea, M, and the additional wantings, Ncakes._

* * *

 _One for the Team_

He's dried his face with one of the thin motel towels, rid his bruised and tender skin of the spray of seltzer water, but the glitter is as good as fucking glued, and Dean seems to be having a hell of a hard time keeping a straight face as he preps the items needed to close the gash in Sam's forehead. He tries to cover the motion with a drink of the beer at his elbow, but at the moment his poker face is shit.

"If you're gonna be an ass I can do it myself."

"No, no. I'm good. Let's do this, sparkles." And then, rather predictably, Dean sends himself into another fit of laughter, coughing around the mouthful of beer he'd intended to swallow.

And that's twice now Dean's laughed so hard he's choked on his beer. Twice. And when his other hand is holding a needle that's on a direct course for Sam's face...well, that leaves him fairly concerned.

He pulls away from the needle's trajectory, narrowing his eyes at his brother. "Dude."

"Yeah, sorry." Dean motions him forward again with a tight nod and raises the sewing implement in a meaning-business kind of way.

But when it's coming in for a landing Dean's hand starts shaking again - for the third _freaking_ time - and Sam jerks away before he takes the point of the curved needle right in the eye.

"Seriously?"

Dean gives up entirely this time, dropping the needle and thread to the table as he leans his chair back on two legs. He waves his hand in wordless apology as he laughs.

This isn't the weary, sarcastic chuckle Dean is known for, or even a derisive snort he keeps in his pocket just for Sam, but an honest to God, no holds barred, body-shaking kind of laughter. Loud and unrestrained like he'd laughed earlier outside of Plucky's, and despite his best efforts, Sam can't help but smile himself. It's been a long damn time since he's heard Dean laugh like this. He'd forgotten what it was like, the LIFE in the sound. Dean, who'd always been so full of a life and light that couldn't be tamped out, but not so much as of late, taking more than his fair share of hits for the team.

Suddenly, Sam doesn't feel so bad about the pound of glitter covering his face and shoulders. Not if it makes Dean sound like this again. It's been, God, YEARS. Since Bobby, Ellen and Jo, Hell. Since DAD.

Dean blows out a long breath and swipes at the corner of his eye, regains some composure before scooting his chair forward again. "Okay, bring it in. I got this."

Sam is hesitant to lean in. "Don't stab me in the face, okay?"

Dean blinks at him. "If you want me to stitch that up, then I literally have to stab you in the face."

"Steady hands, then," Sam pleads with wide eyes. "And just the one scar."

"There's just no pleasing you, is there, Sammy?" Dean drops a dopey smile around the words, once again extending the needle.

Sam frowns, reaches up and grabs Dean's clammy wrist in his own hand. "Are you hurt?"

"What?"

"Dean, you're white as a - sit back."

Dean makes a face as Sam forces him against the back of the chair, eyes roaming and hands searching for some previously undiscovered - _or_ _just_ _un_ _disclosed, the stubborn asshole_ \- wound. "Sam, I'm fine, I don't know what you're - "

" _Shit_ , Dean." Sam pulls a bloody hand from inside the right side of his jacket and looks up at him, emotions split between pissed and incredulous. Dean had made a big stink over stitching up a cut that barely warranted such treatment, and the son of a bitch has been sitting here bleeding the whole damn time. "You're telling me you didn't feel this?"

Dean blinks dumbly at the tear in the fabric at his side and the bloody spot on his t-shirt that Sam has uncovered, grown and soaked through button-down and the lining of his coat. "Huh."

" _Huh?_ " Sam repeats, gaping. He almost hits his brother. The warm and fuzzies of reconnecting with long-gone carefree Dean have taken a hike, leaving behind only the seemingly perpetual frustration and disdain that come with the territory of being cooped up nonstop with this stubborn, self-loathing jerk. "That's the best you've got?"

"Well, I mean, the asshole took a few shots at me, but none of 'em were close."

Sam pulls the tacky cotton tee away from the wound and hisses at the sight of the gouge above Dean's hip. "Looks like they were close enough." Although Sam's got enough unfortunate experience logged that he knows the graze looks more from a ricochet than a direct hit. _Small favors, Sam._ Because this might have otherwise stopped bleeding by now, but Dean's been moving around all over the damn place, and by Sam's best estimation he's been bleeding for well over an hour. "Dammit, Dean."

A loose grin cuts Dean's face, but it's nothing near the kind of smile he was dropping earlier. The corners of his mouth are tight, evidence that he's finally feeling the pain of the graze now that he's aware of the injury. He swallows and winces, and Sam drags the half-full beer across the table so his brother can't tempted to add that further to the mix, shoves a wad of clean gauze between his groping fingers instead.

"We're like Boy Scouts, Sammy."

"What the hell?"

"Yeah." Dean makes a vague gesture at the first aid spread on the table. "Always prepared."

Sam pauses in shifting the necessary supplies to his side of the tabletop and blinks a few times, then lets loose his own shrill peal of laughter.


End file.
